Requiem for an Alto
by MissTempleton
Summary: Phryne gets a call from her very good friend the Provost, because one of his altos has come to a rather unpleasant end.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Hello everyone, why are you all out here? It's pouring, you'll get soaked, and then where will we all be with the Easter services to prepare for?"

Hector Matheson, Director of Music of St Mary's Church edged his way through a group of very grumpy and soggy choristers to reach the side door of the Church, fumbling as he did so for his keys.

"It's locked, Mr Matheson," complained one of the tenors.

"Well, it shouldn't be. Young Thomas was supposed to be here half an hour ago to get out the Brahms for you all, surely he hasn't locked himself in?"

There was no answer to that, beyond more grumbling. The door was finally opened and the choir tumbled through it, shaking hats, coats and umbrellas like so many Labrador puppies, with scant regard for the wax candles stacked in the alcoves to either side of the door.

Matheson led the charge into the main body of the church, tutting to himself and muttering about the unreliability of library assistants. Turning to head to the organ loft and unlock that, though, he stopped short. Swallowing hard, he blinked several times and grasped the end of the nearest pew to steady himself.

As he did so, he heard someone approaching from behind him.

"Mr Matheson, we can't get into the music cupboards either OH MY GOD!"

The Director of Music and his most trusted bass stood next to one another and tried not to believe that the body hanging from the organ loft, by a rope around its neck, was that of Thomas Rose, alto and assistant librarian.

They were unsuccessful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Phryne, you really shouldn't have," said Detective Inspector Jack Robinson weakly.

"But Jack, it's the first of its kind!" His wife, the Honourable Phryne Fisher moved to kneel at the bottom of the bed for a better view. "I helped Lin Chung to design it myself, and it's got all sorts of features with just you in mind."

There was a gentle tap on the door, and a clearing-of-throat-based apology from Mr Butler.

Phryne leaped off the bed, robe in hand, and snatched the door open, hiding behind it while rendering herself decent, so that her factotum was treated to the sight of the (nominal, at least) head of the household in a dressing robe. It was made of midnight blue silk, almost black, lined in pale blue to add weight, decorated with a long golden dragon which extended from the base of the front panel on the left, across the back to breathe fire over his right shoulder.

Mr Robinson, perforce, sent an enquiring glance, Mr B-wards. And tried to pretend that he was wearing his favourite three-piece wool suit. Also his raincoat, his hat, his notebook in his left hand, his revolver … at which point he realised he was perhaps being overly defensive about trying on his wife's latest gift. He automatically tried to put his hands in his pockets, and discovered that the garment was indeed provided with pockets exactly where he would have wished them to be.

There was Nothing Wrong With It. It was Just A Dressing Robe. And it would be handy. But he'd not needed one before, and silk next to the skin, when the skin in question wasn't his wife's, was a sensation that would take some getting used to.

Mr Butler naturally behaved as though the situation was normal. To be fair, this had been Miss Fisher's residence long before the Inspector had moved in, and so Normal had had to get used to a few unorthodox amendments ages ago.

"I do apologise, sir – I have the Provost of St Mary's Church on the telephone. One of their lay clerks appears to have died."

Just as Jack was about to enquire whether the telephone number at 221B The Esplanade had somehow become mixed up with that of City South, Phryne popped her head around the door.

"Alphonse Armitage is on the telephone? I'll come at once, Mr B." So saying, she whisked off down the stairs. Jack turned back to look in the mirror and dug his hands deeper in the well-hidden but substantial pockets. His hand closed round something in the right one; brow faintly furrowed, he withdrew it, and couldn't suppress a slight smile when he saw a neat, silk-bound notebook, with a gold pencil attached by a cord.

He went to the window and peered gloomily out at the rain before shedding the dressing robe. It seemed highly likely they were going to have to go out again that evening, and they were going to get very wet indeed. While he might feel more at home in the suit he was in the process of re-assuming, he spared a longing glance for the splendid dressing robe and the evening of warmth and leisure in the scintillating company of Mrs Robinson that it represented.

He was inserting cufflinks when Phryne returned. She took in his state of dress with a wry smile.

"Sorry, Jack – though you probably would have been hauled out before long anyway."

He shrugged – he hadn't become a policeman solely on the terms that crimes would be committed strictly between the hours of 9am and 5pm, Monday to Friday with a half-day every second Wednesday, after all.

"What's the story?"

She was dressing, in her own more flamboyant style, which involved selecting and rejecting three or four options before settling on black trousers and light sweater as the most practical solution for the evening.

"If we're going to be wet anyway, I'd rather be warm and wet than cold and wet. And all churches are freezing, even in March," she observed. "I'll fill you in on the way there. Are you ready?"

Plucking her favourite black beret from the shelf, she settled it on her sleek bob as they hurried down the stairs. Both grabbed raincoats and umbrellas from the hall stand and, with the air of soldiers about to raid an enemy outpost, snatched the door open just as Mr Butler scurried back in from bringing the car round.

"Thanks, Mr B – see you later, and if we're too late, just leave the whisky out!" she called as they ran to the car. Jack drove, to let Phryne do the talking.

"The deceased is one Thomas Rose, a member of the church choir. He was supposed to arrive early tonight to get out music for the rest of them, and would then normally practice on the organ until the rest arrived. When they did, though, they found the door locked, and it wasn't until the Director of Music – er, Matthews? No, Matheson – turned up to let them in that the body was discovered."

"Where?"

"Hanging by the neck from the organ loft. I don't know much else, except that he was quite a young chap – I seem to remember the whole choir's made up of students, this isn't one of those places where they have serried ranks of cherubs to sing the top parts angelically and throw paper bombs at each other during the sermon."

He committed the rare solecism of taking his eyes off the road for a moment. "They do that? I had no idea church was such fun. We didn't have paper bombs in church in Richmond, or at least, not when my mum took me."

She enjoyed for a moment the image of Jack as a solemn little boy, in best shirt and pressed shorts, being led by the hand to the house of God. Of course, if you were going to Always Do the Right Thing you had to start early.

"No idea," she replied to his question. "I always sit at the back. I like to arrive tardily, sing loudly, donate generously and sneak away before anyone tries to get me to sign up for the Flower Committee."

He pulled the Hispano-Suiza to a halt outside the church, having in gentlemanly fashion engineered it that Phryne had the least distance to scuttle through the rain. The door, fortunately, was unlocked.

Their entrance into the nave was noticed by a portly gentleman in a clerical collar.

"Phryne!" he exclaimed as he bustled towards them in welcome. "Thank you so much for coming out."

She embraced him. "I couldn't not, Alphonse. Jack," she turned to make the introductions, "this is Alphonse Armitage, Provost of St Mary's. Alphonse, you will be far too law-abiding ever to have met Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of City South police station." She could see the question already forming in the Provost's mind and added, "my partner in crime-fighting more often than he would like, and also my partner in the sense that he very kindly asked me to be Mrs Robinson and I snapped him up hastily before he could change his mind about the idea."

The thorny question thus resolved, Jack enquired whether his colleagues were on the premises.

"Just one, sir – a Constable Collins is with the choir now, taking statements. I understand the photographer and the coroner's team are still on their way. The conditions are rather … biblical this evening," he sighed.

Jack immediately asked to be pointed in the direction of the choir interviews, and went to let Collins know he'd arrived. Phryne settled into a pew with Armitage.

"Did you know the boy, Alphonse?"

"Oh yes," he said sadly. "I know them all. They're very good, these young people. Work awfully hard for their fees."

"They get fees?" Phryne was surprised.

"Yes, my dear. Not a great deal, but it helps them cover their study costs and so on, and we genuinely value what they do." He smiled. "I'm sure a lot of them would do it for love, but love isn't generally accepted currency at the grocery store!"

Jack returned. Collins was, apparently, making good progress with the interviews and had promised to report back once they were completed.

Phryne excused herself, and the two of them made their way towards the grisly scene at the organ loft.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

A small, arched doorway in the organ structure gave way to a spiral stair, leading up to the loft itself. Phryne entered first, and stood back to let Jack into the confined space. He examined the knot securing the rope to the balustrade – workmanlike and clearly effective. Phryne glanced round the rest of the space.

"Jack! Look!" He glanced round. She was kneeling on the organ bench, peering at a sheet of paper that was propped up on the music stand. Reaching for it with gloved hand, he carried it to the light, where they both studied it.

It carried only two typewritten words.

"FATHER, FORGIVE"

Phryne's brow furrowed. "If that's a suicide note, it's the most succinct I've ever seen. And, it has to be said, largely unhelpful."

"Entirely unhelpful," agreed Jack. "If it's from the Bible, I think the rest is something like 'forgive them for they know not what they do' which doesn't make any sense. Is Rose asking for forgiveness for taking his own life? Or his killer asking for forgiveness for taking it?"

He bagged the letter carefully, and turned back to the body.

"Let's say it was murder. There's no sign of a struggle. So either Rose was unconscious when he dropped, or he was taken by surprise or overpowered by someone much stronger."

The both looked down at the body again.

"Look at the angle of the neck, Jack. Broken, do you think?"

He considered, and nodded. "We'll know better when he's cut down – where on _earth_ is that photographer? – but it does look like it."

"He's not fallen far, and he's not at all heavy, so … either he fell with enough momentum to break his neck …"

"… or it was broken before he fell." Jack agreed. "I'd go with the momentum idea. He gets turfed so violently over the balustrade that the initial fall breaks his neck." They exchanged glances.

"Let's hope so," she replied. "At least it would be quick." Then tipped her head. "Might the body … swing when it stopped falling?" He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.

"Let's have a look downstairs." They returned down the spiral stairway and as they emerged back into the church, the door opened to allow the long-awaited members of the investigative team to make their entrance.

"At last," muttered Jack, and went to greet them. Phryne was methodically studying the wall under the loft, and having found what she was looking for, waited patiently for Jack to return with the photographer.

"Jack, here!" she pointed. He followed her finger, and saw one dark and one slightly fainter scuff mark on the otherwise scrupulously-clean eggshell-blue paintwork. By the time the photographer had finished, she had filched a length of string and a step ladder from the verger's room, using it to measure the distance from the bottom of the organ loft to the body's feet. Only then would The Honourable Phryne Fisher allow the body to be cut down.

Sure enough, the scuff marks were at just the height the body's feet would have reached.

"Murder, Jack," she stated firmly. "I'm convinced." He nodded ( _yes, dear_ ), but was clearly engrossed with the arrangements for the body, and so she looked around for fresh blood – and spied it coming out of the choir rehearsal room. She skipped nimbly round the edge of the pews to intercept him, which action made him nervous. In general, most things Miss Fisher did made Hugh Collins nervous – chiefly because he'd learned to his cost that if he wasn't nervous, he ought to have been.

"Hugh," she greeted him firmly. "Anything from the choir?"

"Er, I should just speak to the Inspector, Miss …" he tried vainly to get past her, then realise the effort was fruitless – especially since success would probably end up looking undignified. His shoulders sank in resignation. "Mostly just names and addresses at this stage."

"Any thoughts about why he might have killed himself?" she asked artlessly.

"No, on the contrary, Miss – the only thing everyone was agreed on was that they couldn't believe he would do such a thing."

She nodded in satisfaction and stood back to allow him to seek the sanctuary of his commanding officer's company. The body and evidence having been removed, there was every sign that moves were being made to close the matter for the night. A voice at her elbow echoed the sentiment.

"Do you think we can go now? We'll have to come back on Saturday morning as it is, to make up for lost time, and goodness knows where I'm going to find an alto dep by then!"

Turning her head, she found herself looking down into the aggrieved gaze of a slight, grey-haired gentleman. "I'm sure the Detective Inspector will let you know straight away," she said comfortingly, "Mr …?"

"Matheson," he shot out a hand which she found herself grasping, and being on the receiving end of an efficiently-executed handshake. _Conductor?_ she wondered. "Hector Matheson, Director of Music."

Delighted by her accurate deduction, she smiled at him warmly. "Phryne Fisher. Detective, and personal friend of the Provost, who asked me to come and see if I could help. Ah, looks like you're going to be released, Mr Matheson. Would you mind very much if I popped back in on Saturday to listen to you and see if anyone has any more thoughts about tonight's awful events?"

"Not at all, please do," he said graciously. "Constable?"

"You and the choir are free to go, Mr Matheson, and the Inspector asked me to thank you for your patience."

"Not at all. Awful situation, and we must all do what we can," he shook his head. "Good evening, Miss Fisher – Constable," he returned to collect his flock, and shepherd them out of the building into the deluge.

Phryne wandered over to join the three other remaining occupants of the church.

"One last thing, Provost," Jack was asking. "How many people have keys to the church?"

The Provost hesitated in thought, and began enumerating on his fingers.

"The three of us in the clergy each has a set; the verger; Myrtle Cooper, who leads the flower team; Mr Matheson and his assistant organist both have keys; and young Rose had a set. And a spare set always hangs in the verger's room. Shall I check that it's there?" he offered.

"If you'd be so kind," Jack answered. They returned to the glory-hole from which Phryne had filched her piece of string, and sure enough, a set of keys was hanging from a hook marked "SPARE" on the wall; the Provost confirmed that all were present and correct, and turned back to his interlocutors.

Jack took pity on them all – and himself.

"I think we've done all we can for tonight, sir. Thank you."

They paused in the entranceway to don their various waterproofs, and Phryne noted approvingly the inherent honesty of the choristers that had allowed their umbrellas to remain in place. Had she left any nice sharp pencils about the place, she reflected, it might have been a different matter, but everyone had their weaknesses.

Collins was adjured to meet the Inspector at the Morgue in the morning, and dismissed; and Jack and Phryne bid the Provost goodnight as he finished locking the church, and they raced for the car once more.

Starting the engine, Jack turned to Phryne.

"Did I hear you ask Mr Butler to leave the whisky out?"

"You did, Jack."

"Then, while we're still close to the celestial switchboard, I should probably send a quick telegram to the Almighty because the words Thank God have rarely been so heartfelt."

A lightning bolt flashed across the sky.

"I think it got through, Jack," she grinned. He returned the smile and let in the clutch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Mr Butler opened his eyes with a start, sat up in bed and, after a moment, swung his legs out to find slippers, and reached for his dressing gown. If there was a burglar trying to make off with the housekeeping money, they were making a woefully noisy job of it.

When he reached the kitchen, though, it was not felon but constabulary making all the noise. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was looking doubtfully at the coffee percolator.

"Good morning, sir, would you like some coffee?"

"Good morning, Mr Butler. Yes – at least, I would _like_ some coffee. Mrs Robinson is going to _need_ some coffee if there's any chance of her making it to the Morgue this morning. Probably quite strong coffee. Can you help?"

"Ah. Something more along the lines of Gauloises than Balkan Sobranie, is that the suggestion?"

"You have the need in a nutshell, Mr B."

"I will bring coffee and pastries in a few minutes, sir."

Thanking him, Jack returned upstairs to shave and dress. From the starfish-shaped mound on the bed there was no response, and this was to be expected; however, he could imagine her wrath if she was left behind when he went to see Mac, so coffee it must be.

The nectar arrived, and he poured two cups, taking a sip from his own first. He blinked hard at the taste – Mr B hadn't stopped at Gauloises, he'd headed straight for Capstan Full Strength. He was probably right to do so, mind you.

Taking the other cup, he sat on the edge of the bed and allowed the scent to reach the sleeping beauty's nose. The effect was scientifically fascinating; first it twitched. Then a quick sniff. Then a long, indrawn breath and a beatific smile blossomed on the mouth beneath.

"Good morning, Mrs Robinson."

"Coffee."

His place in the hierarchy (at that hour at least) thus established, he left the cup on the table beside her and retreated to the foot of the bed with his own. She sat up, reached for the cup and downed the contents like a vodka shot, looking down to swirl the grinds in the bottom of the cup regretfully before replacing it on the table. He wordlessly refilled it. She picked it up and sipped, then looked up and smiled blearily.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello. I thought you wouldn't want me to go to the Morgue without you."

She groaned, and dropped her head back on to the pillows behind her. "You were right. How long do I have?"

"Long enough for a bath. Shall I run one?"

Her head tipped forward again, and she opened both eyes, smiling properly this time.

"Yes please. But come here first."

A husband who could wake her with coffee, keep quiet until she'd drunk it and then offer to run her a bath needed thanked, after all.

Duly abluted, they drove to the Morgue, where Dr Elizabeth Macmillan and Constable Collins were waiting with the deceased. Phyrne eyed her friend coldly. How could anyone be so chirpy around a dead body at such an early hour?

"Young adult male. Cause of death – broken neck," she stated.

"That's a relief, for a start," remarked Phryne. Mac nodded.

"Whoever did this knew what they were doing. The rope was tied in a proper hangman's noose – not many coils, but they only increase the friction anyway. Importantly, the knot was positioned here," she pointed to a spot towards the back of the jawline, in front of the ear. "Any further back, and your corpse would be more likely to asphyxiate. Whoever did this was looking to achieve death, not suffering."

"Any other signs, Mac?" This from Jack.

"Just one thing. Some threads under the nails that don't tie in with the victim's own garments. Heavy black wool – like a heavy coat or some such thing."

"Or a cassock?" asked Jack, as Phryne took the sample dish Mac handed across and picked through the fronds of thread."

"Or, indeed, a cassock," Mac agreed.

The threads examined, there was little more to be gained, so they took their leave.

"Where now, Jack?" Phryne asked as they strolled towards the cars.

"We're for City South. Collins and I need to interview the rest of the key-holders."

"Clavagers," said Phryne absently. "I'm going to go and see my new business partner. Will I find Mrs Collins at home, Hugh?"

He smiled. "You will, Miss, and delighted to see you, I'm sure."

"Then tally ho, gentlemen!" she cried, waving a blithe hand and accelerating the Hispano away with scant regarded for bystanders, the gravel or other vehicles. Her turn onto the main road was particularly entertaining and definitely shook at least one butcher's van and one unassuming private car out of their blameless calm. The Inspector watched impassively, hands deep in pockets.

"Did you see that, Collins?"

"Yes sir – er .." the Constable caught his Inspector's eye. "N-no. See what, sir?"

"No, nor did I," confirmed Jack. "Shall we go and ask a flower lady what she was doing last night?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Two of the key-holders were dismissed from the list of suspects with great ease. Even if she hadn't been about five feet three inches tall and roughly the same girth, Myrtle Cooper would have been an unlikely candidate.

"Come in, Inspector, do! Constable! I've just made a batch of scones, you must have some," she chattered away as she ushered them to her kitchen. Jack, who had rather hoped this might have been one task to be completed quickly heaved an inward sigh, but wasn't proof against the scents emanating from the cooling tray. Hugh Collins was in heaven.

"You've heard the sad news, I expect, Mrs Cooper?" asked Jack politely as she produced scones, butter, jam and cream. She stopped, put everything down and crossed her hands on her apron.

"I did, Inspector, and I can scarcely believe it. That poor, dear boy! I mean, I know he was a young man really but they're all just children, aren't they?" He agreed that they were, although he'd cause to know that students could get into some very grown-up trouble indeed when it suited them.

"If we could just confirm your whereabouts last night?" he asked apologetically.

"Here, Inspector. Mr Cooper and I had a lovely chop each, and an apple pie." She was about to enumerate the further details of the evening, but he jumped in swiftly.

"And your keys to the church?"

"Always in my handbag, Inspector. Here you are." She rummaged, unloading most of its contents in order to demonstrate the existence of the church keys.

Although Hugh enjoyed very much the process of cross-examination, to the extent of no fewer than four of Mrs Cooper's scones, it became clear very quickly that her knowledge of Thomas Rose, and the musicians in general, was sketchy. Her reign was generally observed on Saturday morning, theirs on Thursdays and Sundays. Yes, she liked him; no, she didn't know anyone who didn't.

Forestalling Constable Collins' fifth assault on the scone dish, Jack moved them on to the next interview which was – fortunately – much more succinct.

"Rehearsal," replied Colin Steeple briefly, when they caught up with him in the practice rooms at the University. "With the University orchestra."

"Were you – engaged in the piece the entire time, sir?" Jack hazarded. This at least got him the undivided attention of his interviewee, otherwise engaged in sorting through a very precarious pile of sheet music.

Steeple's mirth was barely hidden.

"Let's just say it would have sounded a bit odd if I hadn't." Neither policeman had the slightest idea what he meant, and it showed, so he relented.

"They've got an ambitious programme this term, Inspector – the centrepiece of their closing concert is Saint-Saëns' Third Symphony," he explained.

Sage nodding from both members of his audience.

"The Organ Symphony, Inspector."

Ah.

"Astonishing piece, and the very devil if you're out of the habit of playing along with other musicians. When you're on the King of Instruments, what you say generally goes – this time, I'm counting like billy-oh and trying not to come in too early." He laughed heartily at was clearly a hilarious joke – for organists.

"Can you tell us anything about Thomas Rose, sir?"

"What do you want to know? Nice enough lad. Studious, but a bit haphazard. He had the librarian job because he needed the money, I think, rather than any particular talent for organisation."

"Oh?" asked Jack, interested. "Was he struggling financially?"

"Not as such, I don't think – just that his parents aren't well-to-do – rural folk, I think – and every little helped."

"Were you aware of any quarrels with anyone in the church?"

Steeple stopped shuffling papers to consider, but shook his head. "Nothing that springs to mind. Of course, people are always painfully polite on the surface, aren't they? I usually take that at face value, which can have amusing results. When someone wishes you 'Good Day' in a voice that shows they'd like you to take a long fall from the nearest high bridge, they can be thoroughly nonplussed when you thank them." He grinned, and Jack grinned back. He was rather getting to like Colin Steeple.

Bidding him farewell, they debated briefly and then returned to St Mary's. Neither of the other clergy they sought was present, but a tall man in a brown overall was sweeping the marble floor when they arrived.

Sadly, their good fortune in interviewees proved to have expired. The monosyllabic Verger admitted that his name was Norman Scott; that he had been at work the previous evening; and that he had not seen the deceased before leaving to go home.

All of the above was delivered without breaking the rhythm of his broom; one had to allow the man his dedication to his work.

The Inspector met his Constable's eye, and the abandonment of the task for the present was mutely and mutually agreed; within a remarkably short time, the kettle was on at City South Police Station.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Phryne sat back and licked biscuit crumbs from her fingers with relish.

"I must say, this is the sort of business partnership I like" she pronounced.

Dot smiled. "I seem to remember the original intention was to have a detecting business, Miss, not a bakery! So, what's the detecting we've got to do?"

Phryne sat forward. "We're going to choir practice, Dot." Dorothy looked worried. She would happily join in the hymns, but joining a choir was definitely a step too far.

"Oh, don't worry, Dot!" laughed Phryne. "We're only going to listen. And make admiring noises, which I gather shouldn't be too hard because this is a pretty useful bunch of warblers, by all accounts. Anyway, we listen, smile, applaud and whatnot – and then we have their choirmaster's permission to mingle and ask as many questions as we like."

"We want to know more about poor young Thomas Rose. Who his friends were, and who they weren't. Any rivalries in the choir – trust me, Dot, there's always something. Any choir worth the name has civil war going on in the sopranos most of the time. This is a pretty small outfit – there are only sixteen of them even when they're at full strength – but I'm sure there must be some petty rivalries to be unearthed."

Thus forearmed, Fisher & Williams strode confidently into St Mary's shortly after ten thirty the following morning. The sound of voices raised in song filtered into the church from the rehearsal room, drawing them in. Phryne caught Matheson's eye as they arrived, and he nodded towards some chairs beside the door, where they quietly sat.

The music drew to harmonious close, and with a few minor suggestions that were dutifully notated by the choristers, he put the sheet away.

"Right, that's all I want to do for Palm Sunday. For tomorrow, though, it was going to be Thomas' solo, so I have had to come up with a different anthem. You'll find a Rachmaninov piece in your folders – from the Vespers. Anyone sung Church Slavonic before, or failing that, Russian?" A smattering of hands led to a crash course in pronunciation.

"Right, the text may look unfamiliar but you know what it means – it's just another setting of the _Ave Maria_. This one brings the altos to the fore, though, especially in the middle section – at that stage, everyone else throttle back and let them through. However, when we start the closing section, it's ensemble and you are at liberty to give it as much as you wish at the fortissimo. In fact, if you've anything left by the time we reach the diminuendo at the end, you weren't trying hard enough." There was a general murmur of amusement as scores were scanned, which stopped immediately with his next words.

"We don't have Thomas, so we're singing this for him. You may bear that in mind."

He provided a note from the piano before him, and, with the smallest movement, brought them all in.

Phryne and Dot were simply spellbound. Beginning quietly, the melodic lines were deceptively simple. Then, though still almost whispered, the alto voices filtered through in a gentle, lilting harmony. Then – all of a sudden – it was as though they were pinned to their seats. There was a sheer wall of sound in the small room, with the students apparently digging to their souls. Then ... calm, and quiet, and an Amen.

Matheson brought them off, and there was a pause. He took off his spectacles and polished them.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen; I think if you do that tomorrow morning we will achieve a great deal. Coffee?"

Phryne wandered over to talk to him as he rearranged the music in front of him.

"Thank you for that, Mr Matheson – an extraordinary experience," she commented. "It's not a style of music I think I've ever heard before."

"The Russian Orthodox tradition has some true glories, Miss Fisher, and it behoves us to share them with a wider audience when we can," he replied. "So, how are your investigations progressing?"

"Slowly," she grimaced. "I've yet to find anyone who had the slightest gripe against Thomas."

He said nothing, apparently giving his full attention to the group around Dot, then glancing down to feed the pile of music into his briefcase.

"Your work is the study of human nature, Miss Fisher, is that correct?"

"It is," she agreed calmly.

"The Church can be a place where ... human nature demonstrates itself in unusual ways."

She got the impression he was choosing his words carefully.

"The nature of the love we owe our neighbour ... and the forgiveness we can ask for our misdemeanours ... is often regarded as open to interpretation."

There was that word again. _Father, Forgive_.

"Are you saying that Thomas Rose had done something unforgivable?" asked Phryne.

"I am saying that you should perhaps stop looking for enemies, and instead look at his friends."

The spectacles were being polished within an inch of their lives; Phryne judged it time to move on to talking to the choristers.

Dorothy was, as it turned out, in her element. These people were so close to her in age that, in an earlier incarnation, she might have been overawed by their educated background. There was no sign of such qualms in Phryne's business partner today, however. She was laughing over a cup of tea with three of the girls from the choir, notebook only surreptitiously held at her side and occasionally picked up to add a detail. Phryne tingled with satisfaction at seeing her protegée coming so quickly to her strengths, and sidled over.

"Dot, introduce me!" As she did so, Phryne nodded, smiled and said a few words, and then in a quick aside: "Thomas had his own friends and we want to know who they were." A nod sufficed. In her next breath, Dot asked

"So, who would you say was Thomas's best friend? Was it someone in the choir?"

The confident blonde on her right elbow responded. "Oh, we're all pretty friendly, but Thomas would always slope off home quite quickly – sometimes one of the other lodgers would even come and meet him, what was his name, girls?" she threw the question to the floor.

There were many confident replies, so Dot could rely heavily on the assurance that Thomas was sharing a house with Philip, Paul or Peter. Or possibly none of the above. Phryne silently applauded the sopranos on their willingness to improvise, and sloped off to the tenor section to try for a more concerted reply. It was easily done.

"Finn O' Connor."

"Lovely chap."

"The two of them have been friends ever since they turned up at the University."

Well, that was straightforward. "Really? Is Mr O'Connor a musician too?"

General hilarity predicated a negative response.

"Dear me, no, Miss Fisher," said Alex, second tenor. "We won't quickly forget the Christmas party at Mr Matheson's house. Everyone joined in the singing, but let's just say that Finn wasn't getting offered an audition afterwards – even as a bass, haha!"

Tenors would laugh at that kind of gag, she supposed.

No-one seemed to have much idea where the O'Connor/Rose lodgings lay, but when one had hot and cold running policemen about the place, one could always track down little details like that, she decided. Extricating Dot from an increasingly involved conversation about crochet with one of the more motherly altos, she made her farewells.

"Did you enjoy that, Dorothy?" she asked mildly as they strolled out of the church.

"Oh, Miss, I had forgotten how interesting it is!" she exclaimed. "Everyone has their own story to tell, don't they?"

Phryne smiled. "They do indeed, Dot. On this occasion, as you helpfully identified, the story we want more of is that of one Finn O'Connor," she nodded when Dot shot her a questioning glance. "That was the name your sopranos were hunting for. The tenors don't know where he lives, but I'm rather hoping your spouse – or mine – might be prepared to fill in the gaps if we share our knowledge. What do you say, Dorothy – shall we grace City South Police Station with our illustrious presence?"

She flourished an arm at her partner, who giggled and took it. Together, they processed regally to the Hispano-Suiza and it was a testament to Dorothy's increasing progress that she only had to close her eyes twice and utter one slight scream on the journey


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The attack on City South by Fisher & Williams was, in the event, two-pronged. It was well planned, well executed, and invincible.

"Hugh!" exclaimed Mrs Collins, wreathed in smiles. "I've been having a lovely time talking to the choir at St Mary's over tea, but I've got a problem I think only you can solve."

Senior Constable Collins bridled accordingly. _Putty_ , thought Phryne, as she sashayed past.

"Hello Jack," she said, shutting his office door behind her. "How's the Rose investigation coming along from your side?"

The Inspector tipped his head. "We're doing better at ruling suspects out than ruling them in, but I suppose it's progress. Mmph." (this last was because Mrs Robinson had taken advantage of the moment's privacy to reward one of the city's hardest-working citizens in the way she liked best. He didn't appear to object, but did reach hastily for his handkerchief to remove any stray lipstick stains).

"Dot and I have made some more progress, but I think it's of the kind that you don't want to be involved in – at least just yet," said Phryne carefully.

"Dot's currently getting Hugh to track down the address of one Finn O'Connor – Thomas Rose's best friend, judging by what the choir has to say."

"'Best friend'?" quoted Jack.

"Exactly," she replied, knowing he'd caught the nuance. "You know my views on this particular part of the law. I'm going to be looking for murder clues, not ways to lock people up for accidentally loving the wrong person. Will you trust me?"

"Of course," he replied. "Come back here afterwards, won't you?

"For a debriefing?" she grinned. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Inspector."

"Sir?" Collins tapped on the door and was bidden enter. "I've got the addresses for the other two clergymen from St Mary's."

"In that case, Collins, we will be able to make ourselves useful while our spouses are doing their best to commandeer the investigation," remarked Jack cheerfully. "Bring the car round."

Donald Tobin, vicar of St Mary's, was a larger-than-life character in every way. He towered over Jack and Hugh, and their hands were each in turn engulfed in his fist for a handshake. His face, when discussing the deceased, was rather like a sorrowful teddy bear's.

"Such a terrible thing, Inspector, I really don't understand it," he commented, lowering himself into a chair that had surely been specially constructed to support his large frame. "Thomas was a nice lad. Friendly enough."

"Did you see him on Thursday?" asked Jack.

"No, I wasn't in the church at all that day," replied the clergyman. "It was my day for parish visits, and I came straight back here after the last one."

"What time would that have been, sir?" Collins looked up from his notebook.

He considered. "Just after six, I think. I don't like to go calling any later than that, in any case."

"And you were here all evening?" Jack pressed.

"Yes – I was writing the intercessions for Sunday," he explained. "I can show you, if you like, but I don't suppose it's exactly an alibi – I could have done them at any time."

The curate was even less helpful, if such a thing were possible. His landlady was of the disapproving variety – she disapproved of callers to the house, disapproved of policemen and appeared to disapprove of her own lodger, which seemed harsh. Jeremy Brown could have been less offensive, but he would have had to try very hard. He spoke quietly, poured tea nervously and agreed with everything anyone said to him – which made questioning a tricky process.

"Did you go to St Mary's on Thursday afternoon at all?" asked Jack.

"Yes, yes – well, no," answered Brown. "I was there for Eucharist at one, but didn't return to the church after that."

"Did you come straight back here?"

"Yes – no, I went to do the grocery shopping for old Mrs Jones. She used to clean the church, but her arthritis is too bad now, so she can't manage any more, but we try to look after our flock, Inspector." This with a plaintive expression, as though he fully expected Jack to tell him off for caring.

"So when did you return here, Mr Brown?" Jack persevered manfully.

"It would have been … around four o'clock, I think," he said doubtfully. "I had an essay to write. I'm still studying, you see."

"And you didn't go out again on Thursday?"

"Yes – no, not at all. My landlady serves dinner at six o'clock sharp, and she gets quite cross if I'm not here on time. Quite right, of course," he added, slightly dismally.

"Somehow I doubt that Brown would have had the nerve to sneak out and risk his landlady's wrath, even if murder was on his mind," said Jack acerbically as they drove back to the station.

"Tobin could be a candidate, sir?" suggested Collins. "He's certainly big enough to have thrown Rose out of the organ loft."

"True," Jack admitted. "He's hiding his evil genius well, though. That cover story of gentle Christian giant is pretty convincing."

He pulled the car up outside City South.

"Much as it pains me, Collins, I think you and I are going to have to go to church tomorrow morning and see all of these people in their natural habitat, as it were." He glanced across at his recently-converted former-Protestant Constable. "Do you have to beg an indulgence or something from Father O' Leary?"

Collins grinned. "I think the line of duty will excuse me, sir. And if Mrs Collins comes too, I'll be doubly protected!"

Jack realised that, just for a moment, he had foolishly entertained the notion that they would be allowed to go to church without Fisher & Williams in tow. Looking on the bright side, the juxtaposition of Mrs Robinson and religious fervour was usually … edifying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Phryne rapped smartly on the door of the rather down-at-heel lodgings to which Hugh Collins had supplied directions. After a short pause, she rapped again. A shuffling sound was heard inside.

"Please. Whoever you are, just go away."

Phryne and Dot exchanged glances. They had the right address, anyway.

"Mr O'Connor," Phryne spoke up. "We're a long way short of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but if you're at all interested in getting justice for Thomas Rose, you really need to talk to us."

There was a long pause. The partners' other entertainments while waiting for a response were few; the street was quiet, there were no gardens to admire, and paintwork in the street was uniformly peeling.

A rattling, and the door opened a crack. A tousled blond head appeared around it; looked them both up and down, and then retreated behind the opening portal. Wordlessly, they accepted the tacit invitation and crossed the threshold.

Their host closed the door behind them, and shuffled past them to lead the way into a kitchen which made Phryne wince and Dot itch to roll up her sleeves.

Finn O'Connor sat at the end of the table and resumed hold of a mug that he'd clearly been nursing for some time. They gingerly cleared a couple of chairs and perched alongside him.

His face was blotched with what looked like a lengthy session of weeping. His nails were bitten to the quick, and his clothes could well have been the ones he'd been wearing two days previously.

Phryne decided there was no roundabout way to approach the problem.

"You loved him, didn't you?" she asked quietly.

Rather than subject the boy to double scrutiny, Dot got up and started responding to her itch to tidy and clean.

The weariness of his gaze when it lifted to meet Phryne's was all the reply she needed.

"Yes. Are you going to have me arrested?"

"Of course not," she told him. "I told you, we're interested in finding out who killed him. I deliberately avoided bringing the police to see you, because while their hands are tied in such matters as your relationship with Thomas Rose, mine are not."

She leaned forward, and covered one of his hands with her own.

"Help me, Finn. Help me find Thomas' killer. Do you know who it is?"

His tears were starting afresh, with sheer relief and exhaustion, finding a sympathetic ear after such a tortuous time; but he shook his head wretchedly.

"I don't know! Don't you think I would have said, if I did? Even if I was locked up for – what Thomas and I had, what we were to each other – it would be worth it to get his murderer caught."

"Then what _do_ you know?" asked Phryne. "Why now, do you think? Did something happen recently that made someone angry? There was a message left with the body, suggesting that there was a sin to be forgiven. Do you know what that was?"

Dot had put the kettle on, and the combination of a hot cup of good tea and some genuine, meaningful support was having a transforming effect on Finn. Dot left the clean dishes to drain and sat back at the now-freshly-wiped table.

"You've been to the church, haven't you, Finn?" she asked. He nodded, already lost in thought.

"Did you see anyone when you were there?"

"Well, I often saw the people from the choir, obviously …" his voice trailed away, and Dot and Phryne exchanged glances.

"Just a couple of weeks ago, I went to meet Thomas as usual, after their rehearsal. I sat in the pews in the church, as I always do – it's a lovely building," he glanced at them both and they nodded in agreement, "and I find it a marvellous place just to sit and think."

"Thomas was last out, when they finished. He often is – he has to make sure all the music's put away properly. Anyway, he came out, and when he saw me, he came over, and started moving along the pew I was in to join me. But you know what he's like! Oh …" real life caught up for a moment, and the understanding that his auditors had no idea what Thomas was like, nor ever would. He swallowed hard, and continued.

"He's – was – clumsy. Ungainly. He could almost fall over his own feet. This time, it was one of the kneelers that wasn't quite tucked under the pew in front properly. He tripped on it, and fell straight into my lap."

He looked up at them again, defensively.

"We didn't do anything, Of course we didn't. All I did was catch him, and we laughed, and I set him on his feet, and we left. At most, I think I brushed down his sleeve where it had got dusty from the floor."

"But there was someone watching. Near the front of the church, there was someone in a long, dark robe. One of the clergy, I think. Whoever it was definitely saw it happen."

Phryne could see it in her mind's eye. So innocent – unless viewed with an eye coloured with exactly the right shade of judgemental jaundice.

"Finn," she said carefully, "I want you to think hard about what I'm about to ask of you."

Even the look he gave her was negative, but she pressed on.

"I want you to come to St Mary's tomorrow morning for the service."

He was shaking his head so violently Dot thought it would fall off.

"No. No, you can't make me."

Dot took his other hand. "No, Finn, we can't make you. But you do see what Miss Fisher is asking? She wants you to come to the place where the person who murdered Thomas will be, and see if you can spot who was listening to your conversation that night."

"And," Phryne enlarged, "if you're feeling up to it, you would be by way of bait, I think. Whoever killed Thomas, if it was for the reason you're suggesting, has only completed half of his task. Which would you rather, Finn – be looking over your shoulder as long as you live, or have the chance to catch a murderer?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"He's not coming," said Jack flatly.

"He'll be here," said Phryne confidently. And sure enough, as the playover for the first hymn began, she nudged him and nodded to the other end of the back row where they were sitting, as Finn slipped into the end seat. He was still pale, she noted, but shaved, suited and booted, he was a vast improvement on the wraith she and Dot had interviewed the previous day. Dot looked over her shoulder from her position with Hugh, half way down the church on the other side of the aisle, and Phryne indicated subtly the location of their "bait".

The singing began, and the procession of crucifix, choir and clergy made its way down the aisle.

"Blast, I can't see him now," muttered Phryne to Jack. He was slightly better positioned, and watched for any reaction from Finn to the personalities in the processional; but although the young man's brow was furrowed, there was a distinct absence of "Eureka" moment. The red robes of the choir gave way to the black of the verger and clergy, and still there was no start of recognition from Finn.

The hymn ended. There were prayers, readings, standing and sitting, the timeless rigmarole of organised worship. An address from Tobin on the nature of the church; and then he announced the anthem.

"The choir has sought to dedicate this morning's performance of _Bogoroditse Devo_ by Sergei Rachmaminoff to their friend and former colleague, Thomas Rose, who died tragically just this week."

The choir stood, and the notes that now had some familiarity for Dot and Phryne began to echo around the stonework of the building. Phryne glanced across at Finn, and saw him rise slowly to his feet. She nudged Jack.

"He's going somewhere. Come on!"

As quietly as possible, they slipped out of their pew and crept round the back of the church in the direction the young man had gone. The movement caught Hugh Collins' eye, and he and Dot followed suit.

As Jack and Phryne rounded the corner at the back of the church, they saw Finn descending the steps towards the verger's office. As quickly and quietly as possible, they followed, but only reached the bottom of the steps in time to hear the door slam shut – and a key turn in the lock. Then, raised voices from inside.

Hugh and Dot caught up with them.

"Collins, can we get that door down, do you think?" whispered Jack urgently. Hugh looked doubtful. The door, though small, was as old as the building, and heavily built. It would be no easy matter, even for the two able-bodied men, to make an impression on such ancient security.

"Hang on, sir!" exclaimed Collins in a moment of inspiration. He re-ascended the stairs to the church, and disappeared for a few moments – reappearing with the buxom, flustered company of Myrtle Cooper.

"Good thinking Collins!" exclaimed Jack. "Mrs Cooper, your keys please?"

She fumbled them from her bag with trembling hands, and pointed out the key to the verger's office. It was the work of moments for Jack to unlock the door; his urgency increased as the swelling of the choir's crescendo coincided with a sudden silence from behind the door.

They burst in, to find Finn O'Connor flat on his back on the floor, and kneeling over him, hands tightening mercilessly on the young man's throat, the verger Norman Scott.

Between them, Jack and Hugh wrestled the man off, and in a concerted effort, secured his wrists behind him with cuffs. Phryne and Dot descended on the victim, who was coughing hard, bruises purpling on his neck, but otherwise mercifully unharmed.

"Norman Scott, I am arresting you for the murder of Thomas Rose and the attempted murder of Finn O'Connor" Jack stated bluntly; but there was no sign that the verger had heard a word.

"Let me at him! It's the will of God that he should die. IT'S GOD'S JUDGEMENT!" he shouted wildly.

Phryne looked up at him.

"This is your judgement and your will, Mr Scott, not God's. Which part of 'love your neighbour as yourself" did you miss? Not to worry," she said coldly. "I think you'll find the judgement of our very terrestrial courts will be more than equal to the task of dealing with you."

 _Amen_ , sang the choir.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The celebratory meal had been finished; the toasts had been drunk; and Mr & Mrs Collins had bidden them farewell and disappeared into the night. Mr & Mrs Robinson returned to the parlour, where he poured them each a glass of whisky.

The evening had been cheerful enough, but Jack as he leaned against the mantelpiece saw that familiar line of worry forming between Phryne's brows. She looked up at him from her perch on the couch.

"Jack, will Finn O'Connor be arrested anyway? Surely it's going to be difficult to try the case without making mention of the murderer's motive?"

He nodded. "It's going to be difficult, certainly. A lot will depend on the judge. If at all possible, we will try to get the motive dismissed as the lunatic ravings of a madman."

He met her gaze steadily. "I'll also be making as much as I can of Finn's bravery in assisting the police in the investigation – he didn't have to throw himself in harm's way as he did, and he very nearly died in the process of helping us catch our murderer."

She dropped her gaze to her lap, where her fingers were fidgeting absently with the ends of her scarf.

"I think I may find myself obliged to attend that particular case when it comes to court, Jack."

He half-smiled. "In case the law proves itself to be an ass?"

"Just so," she smiled, and uncurled to stand beside him.

"I do sometimes think that the law doesn't realise how fortunate it is, Inspector. What with the expertise of its Detective Inspectors …" she took his empty glass from his hand and placed it next to her own.

"And not forgetting the sheer genius of its Private Detectives …" he reminded her as he took her hand to lead her upstairs.

"Oh, never forgetting that," she grinned, "it's really a wonder any criminals have the nerve to break the law at all."

He halted at the top of the stairs and placed an admonitory finger on her nose.

"But if they didn't, Miss Fisher, we would never have met."

Tipping her head, she snatched his finger between her teeth and released it, walking the last few paces to the boudoir.

"And you'd never have had the chance to be a radio star."

"And you'd never have shown me your fan dance."

"And you'd never have recited Shakespeare for me on the stage."

"And you'd never have kissed me."

With each line, another item of clothing was dispensed with, but at that, they both halted.

He took her face in his hands, and whispered a very special prayer on her lips.

" _Thank God for criminals_."


End file.
